It rained yesterday; and, though it is midsummer, it is
unpleasantly cool to-day. The sky is clear, with almost a
steel-blue tint, and the meadows are very deeply green. The
shadows among the woods are black and massive, and the whole
face of nature looks painfully clean, like that of a healthy
little boy who has been bathed in a chilly room with very cold
water. I notice that I am sensitive to a change like this, and
that my mind goes very reluctantly to its task this morning.
I look out from my window, and think how delightful it would be
to take a seat in the sun, down under the fence, across the
street. It seems to me that if I could sit there awhile, and get
warm, I could think better and write better. Toasting in the
sunlight is conducive rather to reverie than thought, or I should
be inclined to try it. This reluctance to commence labor, and
this looking out of the window and longing for an accession of
strength, or warmth, or inspiration, or something or other not
easily named, calls back to me an experience of childhood.

It was summer, and I was attending school. The seats were hard,
and the lessons were dry, and the walls of the school-room were
very cheerless. An indulgent, sweet-faced girl was my teacher; and
I presume that she felt the irksomeness of the confinement quite
as severely as I did. The weather was delightful, and the birds
were singing everywhere; and the thought came to me, that if I
could only stay out of doors, and lie down in the shadow of a
tree, I could get my lesson. I begged the privilege of trying the
experiment. The kind heart that presided over the school-room
could not resist my petition; so I was soon lying in the coveted
shadow. I went to work very severely; but the next moment found